


and you are paranoid in every paragraph

by mackdizzy



Series: Mack's Stan Twins Hurt Comfort [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: PTSD, Scars, Trauma, are you even surprised, burn scars, hurt-comfort, its hurt comfort are you EVEN SURPRISED, mental trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22177081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackdizzy/pseuds/mackdizzy
Summary: Stan treats Ford’s wounds post-weirdmageddon torture, and unpacks a little more than he planned. [STANUARY WEEK ONE: BURN]
Relationships: Ford Pines & Stan Pines, THERE IS NO SHIPPING - Relationship, This is not romantic - Relationship
Series: Mack's Stan Twins Hurt Comfort [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008978
Comments: 24
Kudos: 169
Collections: Stanuary





	and you are paranoid in every paragraph

**Author's Note:**

> It is STANUARY, BABeYS! I got into this fandom in NOV EM BER so I'm just super happy to be participating in this for the first time! I PROMISE YOU I will be writing works for OTHER FANDOMS soon soon SOON.
> 
> What, you thought I was INCAPABLE of writing Stan angst? you thought wrong. I thought Stanuary was a good excuse of a time to SHARE the love (even though this might seem kind ford-heavy at first? looks can be deceiving, folks).
> 
> I'm mildly disappointed at how short this one is, but I really hope quality makes up for it. It should be mentioned that there is a SLIGHT canon divergence here (not even enough to be considered an AU) where Stan and Ford kind of....didn't wait for Weirdmageddon to make up and talk through their shit. Evidently, they've still got a bit of a ways to go.
> 
> this is hurt comfort. can you ever expect anything else from me?
> 
> \---TRIGGER WARNINGS: This fic contains pretty intense talk about burn scars. Scars, so nothing too graphic in the way of gore, but they’re present. Also trauma on both Stan and Ford’s part (mostly Stan for this one).----
> 
> \--THERE IS NO ROMANCE/SHIPPING/INCEST IN THIS FIC.--
> 
> \--(title is a lyric from, appropriately, Hamilton’s Burn.)--

“Hold still, will ‘ya?”

Stan Pines could only huff out an exaggerated sigh when his brother turned around to roll his eyes up at him. He knew that eye roll, though. That wasn’t the playful _I love you but you’re being an ass right now, Stan_ eye roll. That was the _let me pretend to be playful with you so you don’t see that I’m desperately hurting inside_ eye roll.

Stan always saw.

“I’m sorry.” He spoke gruffly, referring to his fussiness; “I’m sorry.” He repeated himself, much more gently, referring to the reason they were here in the first place.

“It’s quite alright, Stan.” Ford mumbled, shrugging the plaid button-up off his shoulders. He fell silent, then, and Stan mirrored, picking up immediately on the graveness of the subject. And it looked bad--it looked really bad. Splotchy, red, slightly swollen marks covered the back of Ford’s neck, scarlet tendrils working their way down his back in veinlike patterns. “They’re all over.” His brother mumbled softly under his breath. He held up both arms, showing Stan that the marks on his neck were matched on his wrists. “And we can do my ankles tomorrow.”

Ford didn’t sound overly emotional, hysterical, despairful, or on the verge of a panic attack, like he might have expected. He just sounded…dejected, like he’d given up on everything. And for some reason, that was even worse to Stan. Sobbing and screaming he could deal with, but this emotionless version of his brother was unnerving--at the very least.

Still, a job to do was a job to do. “I’m sorry if this hurts.” He muttered, gently pressing two fingers to the back of Ford’s neck. His brother winced, but otherwise stayed still. The skin turned white, but didn’t darken or bruise over, and he nodded. “Second degree.” He said briskly. “Not third.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He said with complete sincerity. “The skin would be blackened or darkened upon contact otherwise. It’s very rare for electricity to cause third degree burns, and it’s not the severity of the voltage that determines that. It would be an unstable current. Besides, it’s blistering, and I _know_ it hurts.”

There was an exceedingly long pause, one that was almost driving him crazy. But he’d waited long enough for Ford’s answer, so he reached for the first aid kit, grabbing first the disinfectant. At least he knew now it wouldn’t need hospitalization, because try explaining _that_ to the doctors. He barely got his hand out of the case, though, before Ford was turning around rapidly, biting his lip through the pain as he pulled his shirt back on. “Stan?” He said, his voice quivering much moreso than it had earlier.

“Yeah?”

“Stan, you sound like me. When did you become an expert on this sort of thing?”

There was another pause, this one on him, though he didn’t pause nearly as long as his brother had.

“Aw, you don’t have to worry about that, Ford. Come on--” He nudged the fabric of his sleeves--”Take this back off, we need to look at-”

“No.” Ford said urgently, grabbing Stan’s hands in his own. “No, Stan, we need to talk about _you._ ”

“What’s there to talk about?”

“Stanley.” Ford sounded urgent now, all the emotion that had been missing earlier had suddenly returned. Eyebrows furrowed, shoulders shaky, almost on the verge of tears. Stan had no idea why any of this was necessary, but he knew there was probably only one thing he could do to calm Ford down, and that was telling the truth.

“Alright, alright.” He put his hands in the air. “I told ya’, Ford, I’ve spent a good amount of time on the road. I picked up a lot of shit.”

“ _Picked up_?”

The periods of hesitation were becoming shorter. With a soft groan, Stan awkwardly worked his left arm out of his shirt to reveal a patch on his shoulder, close to his neck; scarred over to an almost leathery texture, dark blueish-black around the edges.

“Third degree.”

He wouldn’t meet Ford’s eyes. Couldn’t meet Ford’s eyes.

“Stan, where did you get this?”

Memories came back in flashes. Picking himself up off the floor. Coughing blood. Strong hands, lifting him up. His body, somehow frail despite his weight. Shuffling from one strongman to another. One vow of protection to another. One list of favors to another. One handshake, one bargain, one deal to another. Same story, different men, different desires, different states, different countries--always the same story.

He snapped back to attention suddenly, and realized he was basically forced to answer his brother’s question now. He still shuffled the shirt back on properly, so Ford (so _he)_ didn’t have to look at it anymore. “Um. First day of prison. In New Mexico. I picked a fight with a dude who thought he could toughen me up. Didn’t realize he had a lit cig.”

“Stan, I’m--I’m sorry.”

“It’s whatever, Ford. I told ya’. I’ve picked up a lot out there. We’re good, though.”

He nudged Ford’s shirt sleeves again, and this time Ford let him, re-removing his shirt. He got a little farther in this time, disinfected about halfway down his back, muttering soft reassurances and apologies when he winced the whole way, but he could tell something besides the pain was troubling his brother. _Whatever._ He forced himself to think. _It’ll pass. We have a system here. Ford likes systems. We can’t get rid of the sys--_

“How many times have you been to prison?”

He looked up, suddenly, his hand faltering, the rag slowly lifting from Ford’s back. “What?”

“You said--you said first time in New Mexico. That implies more than once. How many times have you been to prison?”

His throat dried up immediately. He clutched the rag with both hands, a bit too tightly, and the disinfectant dripped onto the concrete flooring below. “Ford, maybe la--”

“Tell me.”

He breathed in, breathed out. Put the rag down and gripped Ford’s hand in his own instead. He was shaking. _He_ was shaking. That wasn’t the system.

“Seven.”

Ford immediately turned around, faster than Stan had ever seen him move. His eyes were shot completely wide, and he was trembling again. “Seven?? _Seven??!_ ”

“Yes, Ford, I said sev--”

“Not once. Not once have you talked about this! Not once have you brought it up!”

“That’s not the system--”

“What _system_?”

“The system where I’m supposed to be the one looking after you, Ford!”

“Why. Why is that the system? Why is it always me? Why can’t I look out for you? Why are you hiding this from me? Why are you repressing all of this?”

_“Because I don't know how to do anything else!"_

Ford flinched at the shouting. He hadn’t meant to do that, had never meant to make Ford flinch, so he backed off right away. But he hadn’t meant to get like this, either. Trembling. That wasn’t his job. That wasn’t the system. _Pull yourself together, Stanley._

“I’m sorry Ford, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell, I know how tha--”

“What system?” His brother repeated himself, sounding less frantic this time and more heartbroken.

“I--I thought we had a system, Ford. You’ve been through a lot, I’m supposed to be takin’ care of ya’, I thought...I thought we had established that.”

“We haven’t established anything, Stanley, I would never want to establish that for you, I don’t--I don’t want you repressing yourself for me.”

He folded his hands in his lap, looked away for a moment before meeting Ford’s eyes. “I know, Sixer. I know you never wanted that for me. Just...sometimes I can’t help it. Out there--” He pointed a shaking finger. He hadn’t even meant to go on, but now that the floodgates were opened, he couldn’t resist. His hands were trembling, shoulders shaking. Stanley _doesn’t cry_ Pines was getting real close to breaking his impeccable record. “Out there, I was weak if I felt anything. That’s how you learn what a third degree burn is. By being weak, by _feeling_ things--”

“Stan, Stanley.” Ford gripped his shoulders, looked into his eyes. He rubbed a thumb down the back of his shoulder, tilted his head just a bit to the right, looked into his eyes with a strange intensity. “Stan, breathe. Look at me, okay? I’m right here, I’m real.”

He tilted his head, confused at first, but when it hit him, the fact that Ford was mirroring, verbatim, what he did during one of his brother’s panic attacks, he had to chuckle, placing a hand on one of Ford’s and shaking his head. “Alright, Ford. I’m okay, promise.” He didn’t think it particularly had the same effect, but it was endearing, and that cheered him up at least, the tears slowly stopping. Ford pressed their foreheads together and they sat like that for a few seconds.

“Ford.” He spoke softly, after a few seconds. “I want to treat these before they get too bad, okay?”

“Alright.” Ford turned around once more, and Stan picked up the rag, re-dousing it in disinfectant, and got back to work. It was silent for a few more minutes, but it was a different sort of silence; the silence that comes after a secret, and exchange, a broken boundary. An affirmation of trust.

“We can talk about this more, right?” Ford said, barely over a breath, when Stan picked up the bandages and began to unwrap them.

“A--about me?”

“Yes, about you. I want to talk about you. Can we do that?”

Stan almost opened his mouth to protest. That wasn’t the system, after all. But when he felt a six fingered hand in his, solid and strong, he thought, for the first time, maybe he should leave the systems to his brother’s math problems.

“Yeah, Ford. Anytime.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!! Thank you for reading!! as always, if you liked this, I'd really appreciate a COMMENT. I love hearing feedback on my work! tell me literally anything. what you had for lunch today. don't care. Happy Stanuary, all! <3


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